


Five people who think Dylan Strome is a great kisser (and one who doesn't)

by Caivallon



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: First Times, Five Kisses, Junior Hockey, M/M, boys being stupid and curious, dylan is a lovely mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25237375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/pseuds/Caivallon
Summary: What it says on the tin. Literally nothing else.
Relationships: Auston Matthews/Dylan Strome, Connor McDavid/Dylan Strome, Dylan Strome / Cliff Pu, Mitch Marner/Dylan Strome, Patrick Kane/Dylan Strome, background Connor McDavid/Mitch Marner
Comments: 11
Kudos: 42





	Five people who think Dylan Strome is a great kisser (and one who doesn't)

**Author's Note:**

> This little story happened only because Dylan posted a cute pic of him kissing his girlfriend and then I talked about that pic with some people on my discord and wrote it down in three days. 
> 
> It’s the first time I did a 5 times story and I had lots of fun. Probably more than my beta readers Sarah and [ **MarnerToMatthews** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarnerToMatthews/profile) because it was a huge mess. So thank you both very very much for dealing with this, you’re the best! ♥ 
> 
> Thanks go to [ **tillyenna** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tillyenna/profile) for her great idea. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy reading it.

**Five people who think Dylan Strome is a great kisser (and one who doesn’t)**

**Mitch Marner**

Mitch doesn't know how it happens, but it's all Dylan Strome's fault. _Obviously_. 

Sure, his hockey is awesome, even Mitch has to admit that. He's fast, has skilled hands, and on a very good day, he even puts McDavid to shame. Thankfully he doesn't have those kinds of days very often, because he's usually more busy throwing Mitch off his game by chirping his size (not everyone's a giant, Strome), his voice (as if yours is any better) or his haircut (at least I can cut it, what can you do about your face?). 

He'd been an annoying piece of shit throughout the whole game, as usual, and then afterwards when they met outside the locker room. Honestly, sometimes Mitch admires his persistence; being constantly annoyed and so annoying must be tiring. It’s no wonder Strome looks like hell all the time.

Today Mitch is in too good of a mood to deal with Strome’s bitching. Winning against the Otters is usually a pretty effective method to shut him up, and Mitch has no idea who pissed in Strome’s cereal this morning, but the Knights won and he has had enough of Strome for one day. So instead of chirping back, he grabs Strome’s shirt and kisses him, hoping it will finally shut him up. 

It does. 

It's amazing. 

But even more amazing is how Dylan gasps into his mouth, first surprised and almost sweet, before he opens up for Mitch. He tastes a little bit of cherry mint gum, and a little bit of chocolate. It's not what Mitch expected, but he finds that he likes it. When he slips him some tongue, Dylan shudders and goes all soft, but he quickly answers and tentatively brushes back with his own. Mitch can't help a little smile as he angles his head to deepen the kiss. Dylan's lips are very soft, very curious, and they feel incredible against his own. Especially when he starts to nip at Mitch's lower lip after they part a fraction to breathe. It's teasing and exploratory like he's learning and memorizing what Mitch likes; playful and yet confident. 

It's pretty great. 

Never before had Mitch thought about kissing Dylan, but now he realizes he was stupid not to, because _wow_ —his mouth is so much better when he's not using it to annoy Mitch. 

But suddenly Dylan pushes him away. 

“You dick, you stole my first kiss!” He uses the sleeve of his sweater to wipe over his mouth, then he makes a fake gagging sound, and Mitch would have been offended if it weren’t for the obvious fact that Dylan had been very much into the kiss not even ten seconds ago.

But the indignation on Dylan’s face is real, and so is the shock when he realizes that he said that aloud. 

Mitch grins; he prefers this embarrassed version of Dylan over the asshole version he gets during games. 

“Seriously?! That was your first kiss?” It would be so easy to tease Dylan, to ask him how old he is and if he’s also a virgin. It would be so easy to say something mean about no one wanting to kiss Dylan’s raccoon face. 

But the way Dylan is looking at him, still wide-eyed and still blushing, stops Mitch. It’s almost cute. 

Okay, it _is_ cute. And Mitch feels a sudden and unexpected urge of affection for the other boy. 

“Hey don’t worry, I’m pretty sure it only counts if you kiss me not the other way around.” He tries to cheer him up. “You can think of this as, like, the rehearsal.”

Dylan pushes him again. 

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way, Marner. And now the memory of my first kiss is tainted with your face and taste when it should’ve been—” he stops himself at the last second, but he blushes even more while his eyes flicker behind Mitch to the door of the guest locker room. 

“C’mon, it couldn’t have been that bad… I mean, you seemed to be pretty into it for a minute or so.” Mitch shrugs and hazards a guess based on a) who Dylan spends the most time with and b) the relative attractiveness of Dylan’s teammates. "I'm sure McDavid will appreciate your talent." 

Dylan’s hands are around his shoulders before Mitch can blink and then his back is slamming against the wall. It really hurts and knocks the breath out of his lungs. 

"If you tell anyone about this, I'm gonna end you, I swear, Marner." 

Mitch laughs; the sight of Dylan’s dark and horrified expression is satisfying enough to let him forget about the pain. 

“Hey, calm down, I can keep a secret. Except, of course, if you want me to tell McDavid what he’s missing. Because it was a great kiss. I can’t believe that you’re good at that, too, you fucker."

Apparently his words are enough to distract Dylan because he loosens his grip so that Mitch can slip out from his spot against the wall. He quickly grabs his bag and adjusts his touque. 

"If you wanna practice again I’m happy to help. Not that you need to." 

**Connor McDavid**

Truth and dare is not Connor's thing. Admittedly, not many things involving booze and embarrassing facts about his nonexistent dating life are his thing. But saying no to Dylan Strome is also not his thing and that's how he finds himself in one of the Raddyshs' rooms on a Saturday night after they've trashed the Windsor Spitfires.

There's beer and cheap vodka because Dylan persuaded his brother to buy him some. It all tastes horrible but everyone pretends to like it. 

The coaches' rooms are on another floor at the other end of the hotel, which is good because Brinksy whoops excitedly when the bottle points to Dylan. 

"Truth or dare!!"

"Shh, Brinks, keep it down," Connor winces. He silently begs Dylan to say _truth_ , if only because he almost had a heart attack when Travis had asked Brownie to do a single handstand earlier (it was against the door but Connor is too young to die and the coach would definitely have his head if Brownie broke his wrist). 

"Truth." 

Connor exhales.

"Okay, Dylly baby, your first kiss, tell us all about it." 

"Dare! Did I say _truth_? Did anyone hear me saying _truth_!?" Dylan looks so horrified that Connor is suddenly very interested in the answer (and in keeping his head attached to his body).

"Me and everyone on this floor, Dylan." Nick leans closer. "So, spill the dirt. Who was it and how did it happen?" 

"Nope, this question is stupid. Ask me anything else." Dylan folds his arms in front of his chest. His cheeks are very red and it's not from the alcohol alone anymore. 

"Uh uh, you know the rules!"

"They're stupid, and I'm not playing anymore." 

"Dylan, we'll start to think that you haven't been kissed if you don't give us a name soon." 

For a second Connor almost wants to intervene, but then he remembers how Dylan insisted he admits his childhood crush earlier and then had a laughing fit. (Miss Piggy is awesome and he’s not ashamed of saying so.) So he shakes his head and uses his captain voice. Somehow this still works on Dylan. 

"Okay, fine! But if any one of you fuckers laugh I'm gonna piss in your skates tomorrow. I'm serious." 

(He isn't. He's Dylan, grumpy and moody, but without a mean bone in his body.)

"It was Marner, after a game. And it was disgustingandhetasteslikepuke." He says it so fast it's almost impossible to understand and if he was red before he's practically glowing now. 

It’s obvious he's lying. Which makes them all whistle and laugh harder until finally, Dylan laughs along with them. Still beet red but less embarrassed—almost a little bit smug when Daniel admits that he would kiss Marner, too. ('That mouth, buddy. Does he taste like skittles?') 

Later that night Connor and Dylan are lying in their room, teeth brushed and ready for bed, but Dylan is still rambling about the kiss. And by extension, Marner and the stupid rivalry they have going on. 

If Connor didn't find it so amusing he would probably find it annoying. Especially since he's sure that Marner is just picking on Dylan because he's so easy to rile up and not because he actually dislikes him. 

"Jesus, will you ever stop talking about him? Or do I have to kiss you to shut you up, too?" 

Dylan's mouth falls open. For a few seconds he doesn't say anything, eyes downcast. But then he looks up and his expression is shy, a touch mischievous. 

"I mean… It's worth a try." 

It is indeed. 

Their lips connect and almost crush each other because Connor lowers his head too fast while Dylan lifts his too eagerly. It's clumsy and so awkward that Connor feels a wave of disappointment at first—and he's pretty sure Dylan feels the same because he exhales abruptly, a sound that's more a frustrated growl than anything else. But then Connor places his hand around Dylan's neck (to hold him back, to calm him down) and then suddenly everything clicks into place. And then Dylan melts against him and cocks his head so that their lips dance around each other instead of fighting.

It's like they're on the ice, finding each other blindly, combining their talents for a spectacular goal. 

Dylan gasps and licks into his mouth, with a curious and cheeky tongue, determined and bold and brave like everything he does. 

Shivers run down Connor's spine and he closes his eyes for a second only to open them right again because he wants to watch Dylan; his fluttering lashes and the wrinkles around his sleepy eyes. His moles and frizzy curls. His soft blushing cheeks and messy brows. 

Everything about him is dumb and yet so _Dylan_. Connor just can't get enough. Especially since everything Dylan does feels so good to him that his heart is beating like crazy and he wishes he had done this before—not only because it's really a great way to shut Dylan up but also because… Well, it's _great_. 

Connor has never been kissed and has never kissed anyone before. So he's probably not the best judge, but holy shit, he can only hope all his future kisses feel just like this. 

**Cliff Pu**

Marns’ birthday party is a big thing. Probably because usually everything Marns does is a big thing. He's always a bit over the top; too loud, too hyper, too smiley, too affectionate. 

It's part of the reason everyone loves him and why most of the Knights’ roster have made their way to the Marner’s house even though it’s the off-season. 

It doesn't explain why also half the roster of the Erie Otters is here as well, but Cliff is pleasantly drunk already so he doesn't mind. 

Marns’ big brother bought them beer and a variety of spirits and there’s a huge barbeque in the backyard. How Marns convinced his parents to spend the weekend at their cottage is beyond him but Cliff suspects Marns’ innocent blue puppy dog eyes were involved. Except that almost everybody knows that nothing about Marns is innocent. Something he suspects McDavid is finding out right this very moment because they disappeared half an hour ago upstairs after he’d been following Marns around the house with the soft pleading expression of a lovesick fool. 

Cliff doesn't think anyone else noticed; he loves his teammates but they are oblivious as fuck. The same applies to the Otters because no one has mentioned the absence of their precious captain, but that could also be because Dvo finally showed up with more alcohol and a vodkamelon. 

The only one occasionally looking into the direction of the staircase is Strome and when Cliff catches him again he walks over to where Strome’s leaning against the doorframe. 

"What's up with them?"

Strome is a good actor but not good enough to cover the surprise and the way he looks towards the ceiling. 

"I have no idea what you mean." 

" _Please_ …" Cliff draws out the word. "Are they… You know. _Fucking_?" 

He has a hard time imagining Connor McSaint - future saviour of hockey Canada - being upstairs and losing his virginity to Marns; but then again, stranger things have happened. Strome and Marns being friends for example. 

"What do you think?" Strome rolls his eyes; he looks surprisingly awake and fresh tonight, less than an exhausted raccoon than usual. 

"I think you're jealous, just can't figure out of who," Cliff says casually. He doesn't really care but he's still a little bit curious about the sudden friendship between Marns and Strome. He also thinks that someone has to rile Strome up now that Marns stopped. 

And indeed, Strome’s dark eyes become even darker and more stormy. It's a good look on him. Cliff is beginning to understand why Marns loved it so much. 

"I'm not jealous of either of them." It's just a hiss and only serves to convince Cliff of the opposite. 

"Hey, it's okay if you are."

"I'm not!" 

Cliff grins. He doesn't believe him one bit. "Repeating yourself again and again doesn't help to convince me more." 

"What do you want, Pu?" Dylan is tense; the red solo cup in his hand crackling. 

"Nothing, just making conversation." 

"Do me a favour and make conversation with someone else." 

"But you're the most entertaining one." 

"Thanks, I'm flattered." He snarls—it makes his lips twist interestingly and Cliff kind of wants to see it again. But before he can reply Strome turns around and walks in the direction of the kitchen. Cliff follows him. 

It wasn't a lie, there's something about a drunk and definitely pissed Strome that intrigues him. Or maybe it's just that he's drunk too. But somehow he seems to be less of a mess today than usual: the pimples are mostly gone and his curls look like he gave up trying to tame them and they fall freely around his face and into his eyes. The shirt he's wearing tonight is clean and not two sizes too big; it stretches over his shoulders. He's really tall, or maybe he always was and no one noticed over the weird hunch he used to do, probably to make himself smaller. 

Cliff wishes he was that tall. And he wishes he could bulk up like that, or at least get that growth spurt that everyone is expecting of him (but at least he's taller than Marns). He also wishes he could put his hands into those messy curls and find out if Strome’s mouth feels as good against his own as it looks like.

Apparently, he's even drunker than he thought because that's exactly what he says. Not everything, just the part about Strome’s mouth. It's still embarrassing enough. 

Or maybe not, because Strome chokes on his drink and flushes heavily. But there's something definitely hopeful in his gaze, in the stutter that follows when he stopped coughing. 

"You—what?! You wanna…" 

"Yeah, if you want," he shrugs, tries to act casual as if it’s no big deal if Strome doesn’t. "I mean it could be fun."

Strome still looks stunned—his blush deepens. " _Here_?" 

Cliff rolls his eyes. They’re alone in the kitchen but anyone could walk in any minute, and he may be into this but he's really not into the idea of anyone else witnessing it. 

He grabs Strome’s arm and drags him out of the room and down the stairs to the basement. It's thankfully empty but to be sure he opens a door onto the right that leads to a small closet with cleaning stuff. 

"That'll do… I guess, if you still wanna?" 

Strome nods before he's finished the sentence. He looks eager and his little smile is cute, so Cliff doesn't waste a chance and pushes him against the wall and closes the distance between them. 

Despite Strome’s bigger size and stronger body, it's Cliff who leads the kiss in the beginning. Almost like Strome is trying to figure him out, learning how he's kissing and what he likes. At first, it's just small licks and sweet lip bites, gentle but teasing, both of them keeping it PG. 

Strome tastes like watermelon and a little bit like beer, and he sighs when Cliff dips the tip of his tongue against his bottom lip, once, twice, until Strome allows him in. Leaning back he spreads his legs so that Cliff can stand between them to fully press their bodies together. They both gasp and electricity runs through Cliff's body, tingles in his spine when their tongues finally brush. As if that's the signal Strome finally uses his hands to pull him closer, brings his hands around his face to change the pace into something more heated. 

Cliff digs his fingers into the dark brown curls; they feel surprisingly soft, just like Strome's skin and his lips. 

God, his lips—there's something thrilling about them and the way Strome uses them; he’s almost never keeping them still, always moving them against his own and yet never fully pressing them against Cliff’s mouth. Slipping and brushing them over Cliffs, tickling and nipping. If it weren’t so hot it would be frustrating as hell. And the sounds he makes—quiet and breathless little whines and gasps. It’s cute almost, like an impatient puppy, but also baffling because he seems so unaffected while Cliff feels completely shaken. He wants to rile Strome up, too, but in a much different way than before. 

So he brings his thigh up against Strome’s bulge and finally _finally_ gets a deep hoarse moan in return while Strome immediately starts to rub himself against it, riding it with those same small and teasing movements he’s using with his mouth. 

Cliff has no idea who he’s teasing: himself or Strome, but it’s simultaneously the best and worst thing in the world. He bites down on Strome's lower lip, sucks on it, mostly to punish him but also because he wants to feel his rhythm stutter and leave a little mark.

When they part they’re both panting heavily.

" _Fuck_." 

Strome looks beautifully messed up from Cliff's hands, his eyes are hazy and his lips exactly as puffy and red as he imagined. Looking down and finding him hard in his pants… is thrilling and so, _so_ damn satisfying. He grins. 

"Yeah, I have the best ideas." 

"Shut up." 

"Make me."

He doesn’t have time to even waggle his eyebrows. 

**Patrick Kane**

If you asked Patrick what he had been expecting from tonight he would have come up with a lot of answers—having great food, getting the rookies drunk, making fun of Stromer’s and Brinksy’s codependency or Shawzy's everything… Maybe watching Tazer embarrassing himself on the dancefloor or even embarrassing himself (despite common opinion, he’s no fool, he knows what his dance moves look like). 

Never ever would he have answered ‘getting kissed by Dylan Strome’, and let alone that he would like it. 

But he does. He likes it a lot. 

He doesn’t really know how it happens. Okay, he’s lying, because he does. But it doesn’t matter anymore. One moment they’re walking home along the river to sober up because it’s a nice September night, talking about tape jobs, comparing TOIs of various Flyers players and betting about the chances of the Blues winning it back to back. And the next Stromer stops him under Dearborn Bridge and leans down to him. 

There’s no time to ask, no time to react because it’s dark and Dylan’s expression is unreadable. And then Dylan’s lips are pressed against his and Patrick stops breathing for a second until he finally realizes what’s happening and gently pushes him back. 

“Stro—Dylan, what… what are you doing?”

Dylan looks at him; probably biting the insides of his cheeks because Patrick knows he does that a lot when he’s nervous. He’s still close, not enough to touch, but enough to hear him breathing even over the soft lapping sounds of the river underneath them. 

“Thought that was obvious.” He says finally. 

“Uhm yeah, it was. But why?” The moment the words leave his mouth Patrick kind of wants to hit himself because that came off so… rude, so judgemental. Definitely not how a mentor and friend would talk, or someone who cares. “I mean, it’s—don’t get me wrong because I don’t mind. You’re great and I like you but…”

Now Stromer chuckles a little. It sounds strained but also amused, as if he’s the older one and not actually seven years younger than Patrick. 

“Relax, Kaner, I’m—I’m not in love with you or anything.” 

Well, that’s… Good. He exhales.

"But I do like you. I like you a lot." 

"You kiss everyone you like?" 

"No, not everyone. Just the ones that I want to kiss." 

"So I'm special." Patrick laughs, it comes out drier and more sarcastic than he means and he wishes he could see Dylan better. But maybe it's good that they’re underneath the bridge because they are more sheltered here. Still, he's sure Dylan grins. 

"Oh yeah. Real special." He takes a little step closer again. 

"Good to know." Against his will Patrick laughs again; this time it’s real and wholehearted. 

This Dylan is so different than the Dylan he got to know last season when he arrived in Chicago wide-eyed and nervous, constantly waiting to be traded again or sent down to the Icehogs. But he finds that he likes this version. Likes the confidence he carries himself with now; the ease, the more open smiles and sometimes even the little cockiness that he shows after a great game or after flirting with a pretty girl. It suits him, and it’s never in a way that is annoying or boastful because the next moment he’s back to being the slightly awkward string bean that could barely get out a word in front of him or Jonny. 

It feels strange to know that Patrick might have been a reason for part of that change, that he maybe helped a bit with all their obsessing about stats, their COD and movie nights, and sometimes the more serious talks they had about pressure and expectations and not meeting them. 

He hopes this is what Dylan is referring to when he calls him special—and not the simple fact that he’s Patrick Kane. 

“So…” He raises his eyes to meet Dylan’s. “What now?”

Dylan shrugs and looks away to the left where the graceful white silhouette of the Wrigley Building is looming into the night sky, and further left of it the sparkling needle of Trump tower with thousand illuminated windows. Then he looks back at Patrick, gives him a small smile before he reaches for his hand. 

It’s long past midnight on a weekday and they are all alone on the riverwalk. Hidden in the shadows and Patrick’s lips are still tingling from their - too - short kiss. A good kiss. 

Patrick likes kissing. He likes it even more when he knows the person he’s kissing. 

And maybe Dylan senses this because he doesn’t move away, only moves a little bit closer and waits till Patrick tilts his head to meet his eyes again. He doesn’t say anything, but unlike before he places his hand around Patrick’s face and waits until Patrick nods. 

Unlike before Patrick is not only prepared but he’s also eager for it. 

Unlike before there is nothing hesitant and insecure or sweet about the kiss. 

They meet halfway. With eager lips and caressing hands. With open mouths and flickering tongues. Sharing their breath while they nip and lick and play. It’s not a full-on kiss, it’s more like the waves lapping on the riverbank below them, gentle and teasing, nothing forceful. 

But it’s good—it’s almost like when they used to play together on the ice during the first weeks of practice. Looking, waiting, trying to estimate the others' movements. They can sense the chemistry like they could last winter. And like their play, their kiss turns better, more intentional, more calculated and more determined. 

Dylan’s hand slips into his curls and around his head, keeping him in place while his lips wander over Patrick’s cheekbones towards his neck, while Patrick leans closer and kisses his way along the line of Dylan’s jaw. His skin is smooth. So smooth. Tastes almost sweet and smells only faintly of aftershave and something musky. 

Patrick has only kissed one man before Dylan, never had to stretch himself to reach the soft spot underneath the ear to suck a bruise there, but it’s thrilling to be smaller, to be pressed against someone who’s taller—tall enough to enclose him while he memorizes the feeling of losing himself in someone he trusts. 

Because he does trust Dylan. So it’s the easiest thing to open his mouth when Dylan lets his neck go and returns to his lips for another kiss. Deeper this time—as if the first one was only to make sure Patrick was into it, and now that he’s fully relaxed, Dylan is kissing him just to take his breath away. 

It probably lasts just seconds. 

Maybe a couple of minutes.

But it feels endless. 

Until they stop and gather their breath. 

“How did you learn to kiss like that?” Patrick can’t help asking, because he wants to hear the cocky chuckle again. Because he wants to feel the twitch of Dylan's lips against his. Because he wants to know. 

“Practice makes perfect, haven’t they told you? That doesn’t only apply to hockey.” 

Even though Patrick expected a cocky answer like this, he isn't sure anymore if he really wanted to know; is pretty sure that he doesn’t want to know how many others Dylan has kissed to get that good. 

And so he doesn’t reply and instead pulls Dylan’s face down so he doesn’t have to think about anything else except the present.

It’s all they have, and the moment they step out from underneath the bridge it’ll be over. 

**Auston Matthews**

“I told you this is a bad idea.” 

“Yeah, twice already, and I still don’t care.” 

Auston frowns at Dylan as he watches him shuffling through the clothing racks. It’s basically his default expression whenever he’s around Dylan; and as always Dylan doesn’t seem impressed at all. 

“Those girls over there are watching me.”

“Uh, arrogant much?” 

“Not at all—just stating a fact.” 

“They could be watching me.” Dylan grins; the too-wide and sunny one that he probably picked up from Mitch—but unlike Mitch, he only seems to use it when he wants to mock Auston. 

“Yeah, because you’re so popular in Toronto and everybody knows you.” It’s maybe a low blow because they both know he’s right. Dylan may be from the GTA, but he hasn’t played here for five years, whereas Auston is basically the face of the franchise he knows Dylan grew up admiring. For a few seconds he feels a little bad and almost thinks about apologizing because even though Dylan is a little shit to him most of the time, Auston doesn’t want to rub salt into his wounds. 

“I’m pretty sure that they’re just watching us because we’re two guys in a baby store. But help me here with the onesies, 'cause the sooner we’re done here the sooner you can go flirt with them.”

“I don’t flirt with fans. Because I’m pretty sure that’s what they are.” But Auston dutifully steps closer and reaches for a white print onesie. It says _cute as a ladybug_. 

“Gender-neutral, Matthews. We’re looking for something gender-neutral. And that screams girl.”

“Well…” Auston bites his lip and hangs the onesie back. “I don’t get why we’re not going with my idea.”

Dylan rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and Auston wonders again how he ended up buying baby stuff for Mitch and Connor _in a store_ , and _with Dylan Strome_ of all the people. 

“Because it’s a shitty idea. Everyone and their mother can come up with that idea, and they’ll probably drown in Leafs baby clothes anyway.” 

“But not with _our_ numbers.” 

Apparently, Dylan can’t say anything about that because he knows Auston is right, and he’s also probably dying to buy a bunch of tiny Hawks shirseys with his name and number on the back. But instead of admitting it, he continues searching through the hangers and pressing everything he likes into Auston’s hands. They are all cute—but it’s baby clothes, they are cute in principle. 

He still draws the line at anything that looks remotely like otters (when did otters get so popular for baby things?) and sneaks them back on the rack when Dylan isn’t looking. But when he spots Dylan discarding a sand coloured cactus print set, he grabs it right out of his hand and puts it in their maybe pile, fully intending to argue to the death for it (or buy it himself when Dylan isn’t looking).

Twenty minutes later they’ve decided on two different sets: the cactus one and another that will fit in perfectly with the woodland theme that Mitch and Connor have picked for the nursery. Then they spend another twenty minutes arguing about stuffed animals while Auston complains that it’s unfair they don’t have a matching cactus for the set he’d chosen like they do for the woodland set, and Dylan rolls his eyes and tells him that _cacti aren’t cuddly, dude._

He folds his arms in front of his chest, but begrudgingly allows Dylan to go with the little moose and a little fox because he knows that Mitch would love it, even though he thinks it’s a bit lame.

They leave the store with two giant paper bags. Maybe they went a bit over the top, but it’s not like they can’t afford it. (Baby stuff is just too cute, okay?) 

“Uhh, I need coffee. Right now, and inject it into my veins, please.” Dylan sighs and rubs his forehead. Auston looks at him. He’s a mess as usual: baggy jeans and an oversized Raptors shirt, his hair too long and curling out from underneath his snapback. Somehow he manages to pull off this look. But maybe that’s only because the bags underneath Dylan’s eyes are not as dark as they would be during the season and the little scruff he’s managed to grow actually almost looks good. If Auston wore this combo he’d look like he pulled the outfit from a trashcan and get endless shit from his teammates. 

“You always need coffee, and you still look like you haven’t slept in ages.” Auston finally says after realizing that he’s been staring. 

“I’m a growing boy.” 

“You’re 23. I’m sure you’re not growing anymore and also coffee wouldn’t help with that.” But he points in the direction of the next Starbucks anyway. 

This is the point where they could call it a day and part ways. They both have shit to do (in Auston’s case napping because he went a little too hard in the gym this morning, and Dylan probably has to pack because he has to fly back to Chicago for the season opener in two days). Yet instead they both fall in step and head towards the escalators. 

They haven’t quite reached it when Dylan leans a little closer to him, bumping his shopping bag into Auston’s shins before he grabs his arm to lead him to the stairs instead. Auston looks at him quizzically. 

“I feel kinda watched… Like, everyone is staring at you. And don’t turn around, but I think the girls from the store are following us.” 

Auston rolls his eyes, because, yeah, of course they are. He knew they would before they even left the kids' store. It probably sounds arrogant, but people recognize him, and they follow him or chat him up wherever he goes. He’s used to it, at least here in Toronto. 

Ahead of them, he spots a couple with a little boy heading toward them—the father and the kid are both wearing Leafs blue, and he knows the chances are high that one of them are sporting his number on their back. They haven’t noticed him yet, but they probably will any second. 

“Doesn't that bother you?” Dylan’s voice is curious like he’s really interested in Auston’s answer and not just asking to say something. “I imagine it must be exhausting.” 

“It depends… sometimes more, sometimes less.” Auston shrugs. He loves fans, but Dylan is right; it is exhausting, even the most friendly encounters. Partly because talking to one person inevitably leads to talking to a hundred

“Do you wanna talk to them right now?” 

“To be honest… no, I don't.” The feeling of guilt that always accompanies this thought hasn’t gotten better in five years. But before he can turn towards Dylan to defend his opinion and explain it, Dylan reaches for him again and pulls him into a small hallway that leads to an emergency exit. And the next thing Auston is aware of is his back colliding with the wall and Dylan’s lips pressing against his. 

They are soft and nimble, gently and playfully coaxing him to open up, followed by a curious tip of tongue that tastes of coffee and cinnamon gum. It’s addictive, just like Dylan’s reaction when he sucks it into his mouth and drops the shopping bag to put his arms around Dylan’s back. To deepen the kiss—to prevent Dylan from ending it. 

It’s too good. Like rain after weeks of muggy summer heat, like the first signs of flowers in March, like stepping out onto a clean sheet of ice. 

It takes him ten seconds to realize what’s happening, and another ten to discover that he’s already returning the kiss instinctively and enthusiastically. Then he finally manages to stop it—stop himself, stop Dylan, even though he’s probably never wanted anything less, or at least he can’t remember, but he still tears himself away and stares at Dylan. They’re both panting and a little flushed, and he kind of regrets pulling away. 

“What the—”

“Public displays of affection make people uncomfortable.” 

“Yeah, me right now, for example.” 

But even as he’s saying it he knows it’s a lie and Dylan is seeing right through him. Because Auston wants to slide his tongue over Dylan’s cute pout again and suck on his bottom lip. He wants to lick and explore and tease until Dylan melts against his chest and clings to him, as helpless and addicted to Auston’s kiss as he already is to Dylan’s. 

Auston loves kissing; and he loves getting kissed. Someone could probably think he’s arrogant and bragging, but he’s got a lot of experience, and he knows he’s good. (Duh, he’s Auston Matthews, of course he is.) 

Although this kiss was beyond good, and he can’t wait to repeat it, can’t wait for Dylan to gather his breath and say his piece so that he can kiss him again. 

“I have trouble believing that since you seemed to be really into it. And now stop bitching and kiss me again.”

Auston doesn’t even mind Dylan’s teasing, only minds that it’s another couple of seconds that he can’t kiss him. And when he pulls Dylan flush against him, and Dylan drops his shopping bag, when Dylan moans into his open mouth and breathes his name; they both know it’s not about avoiding some girls anymore.

And it maybe never was. 

**Wrigley Strome**

“I think Wrigley doesn’t like the way I kiss.” 

“Excuse. Me. What?” Mitch blinks at him via FaceTime, emphasizing every word. 

“I said I think Wrigley—”

“Yeah, I got that part, but… bear with me, because I have no idea how it feels like to live with your messy brain.” Mitch rolls his eyes. In the background, Dylan can see the glittering blue surface of the lake, the familiar grey pillar of the CN Tower. “I mean, how? And why? And why are you even telling me this?”

“He always looks so sad when I kiss him.”

“You know you’re not supposed to kiss your dog.”

“Yeah, that’s rich coming from _Mr-I-kiss-my-dog-while-playing-Fortnite-on twitch_ ,” Dylan huffs while he stretches out on the couch. The Chicago skyline is all grey and sad when he looks out of the high windows, the stone tiles of his balcony wet and dark, and he’s suddenly overcome with an urge of homesickness he hasn’t felt in a long time. Chicago is his home now—and he loves the Windy City, but sometimes he misses the ugly beauty of his Toronto.

Mitch waves his hand because these kinds of rules never applied to him. 

“So… and I can’t believe that I’m asking this, but why do you think this has something to do with the way you kiss him? Maybe you just have bad breath?”

“Because I don’t have bad breath, thank you very much. You can ask—”

“No! Please, just… tell me.” For a second Mitch looks like he’s enduring torture and not just on the phone with his oldest friend. 

“Okay.” Dylan can feel that he’s getting sad again as he recalls the last months and how Wrigley looked at him while they cuddled. “So, we’re fooling around and everything is great, he licks my hands and is all yappy and excited, super into it and all.”

Mitch mouths ‘ _into it_ ’ and shakes his head. Dylan ignores him. 

“But then, whenever, I hug him and kiss his nose, and he looks at me with his pleading eyes and even stops wagging his tail.”

“Maybe he’s just exhausted? Living with you can do that to someone." Mitch chuckles about his own joke before he pulls himself together and gets serious again. "He’s still young. Zeus used to get tired so easily… like one minute he was playing and running around, the next he basically passed out in my lap or in his bed. Or maybe he’s sick?” Now Mitch looks a bit worried and sad. 

“I went to the vet last week and asked her. He’s perfectly healthy and fine. But he wasn’t like this when I got him, I swear. He was super into my kisses.” 

“You asked your vet about how you think your dog doesn’t like your kisses? Oh god, please let me get Connor, he needs to hear this, too.” 

“Of course not, I’m not crazy!” Dylan feels too restless to stay on the couch and so he gets up and walks over to the kitchen. Wrigley, who has been lying on the carpet, follows him with a wagging tail. Sadly the fridge looks as sad as the weather outside and the only edible thing inside is some soy yogurt and marble cheese sticks that have been his guilty pleasure since he was four years old. There are also some take out boxes, but he’s pretty sure they’ve been there a while and not edible anymore. Deciding he’s sad enough to deserve comfort food, he grabs two of the cheese sticks and closes the fridge again. 

“So, Wrigley’s fine and you didn’t make any more of a fool of yourself than usual… sounds like all is well.” 

“Nothing is well, Mitch! My puppy doesn’t like me anymore.” He whines while he throws himself onto the couch and sighs. Half a second later forty pounds of golden retriever fluff jumps onto his lap and he has to drop the phone and cheese sticks so he can hug Wrigley. 

“Dude, you seem to forget that Wrigley isn’t a puppy anymore, he’s basically a teenager now. They grow out of the affectionate state at some point.” Dylan retrieves his phone and puts it up against the cushion so that he can use both his hands to ruffle Wrigley’s fur while he’s pouting at the screen. 

“Although this really doesn’t look like he doesn’t love you anymore.” Mitch shakes his head. “I really don’t know what your problem is or how I can help you.” 

“You can—uh, you could tell me if you were satisfied with my kisses.” Okay now that he says it aloud it really does sound a bit ridiculous and the next moment Mitch starts to laugh so much that he ends up coughing.

“You want a review about your kissing technique?” 

“Uh… yeah, I guess. I mean, maybe they’re not slobbery enough for him?” 

On the screen Mitch is practically wheezing for breath, face red and hands pressed against his belly, and for a second Dylan is a little worried about his friend. 

“Oh god, ohgodohgod… and some people think I’m overdramatic and crazy.” Finally, Mitch recovers enough to speak. He’s wiping tears from the corners of his eyes and his cheeks are blotchy. “But yeah, Dyl, if that makes you sleep at night— I have no idea how this helps you with Wrigley, but I really really enjoyed our one and only kiss. I had a great time and I think it was just the right amount of sloppy.” 

Then he breaks out in laughter once more, drops his phone so that Dylan can only see blurry smudges of Mitch's condo, then the backrest of his boring couch and white ceiling until Mitch picks it up again. 

“You’re not taking this seriously,” he pouts and cuddles Wrigley’s soft warm body against his chest. 

“Dyl, you’re aware of what we’re talking about here. _Of course,_ I’m not taking you seriously.”

“ _Fine_.” Maybe Mitch kind of has a point here, but— “Can you get Connor?”

For a second Mitch just looks at him, then he frowns. ”I’m not getting my boyfriend so you can ask him if he liked you kissing him. Are you crazy? And if you think that you’re going to call Connor now to ask him, I’m gonna fly over to Chicago and kick your ass.” 

Maybe Mitch has a point here, too, but—

“But—”

“Dylan, dude, didn’t you get yourself a perfectly cute and nice boyfriend?”

“Yeah…?” Dylan has no idea what that’s got to do with his problem. 

“Okay. So, listen, this is what you’re gonna do. Call him, tell him this story and if he doesn’t break up with you right away you can be sure that he’s _the one_.”

Mitch hangs up and leaves Dylan to the quiet humming noise of the refrigerator and the air conditioner. 

Then he picks up his phone again. 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m on [ **tumblr** ](https://miss-malheur.tumblr.com/)


End file.
